The name says it all. This isn't a new dining experience. It's an old one on a different block, Nobu in a different dress. Its menu and its food elicit not so much a stab as a full-on body blow of the familiar.
Here they are, lightly battered rock shrimp in a gently spicy mayonnaise, a dish done with dozens of tweaks and an array of seafood in hundreds of restaurants over the last decade.
Here it is, a plump wedge of miso-glazed black cod, the culinary equivalent of a Cole Porter standard, covered and interpreted by so many artists that you may not recall where and when you experienced it first.
That place was probably Nobu, and that time might have been 1994, when the restaurant opened in TriBeCa, giving the chef Nobu Matsuhisa, who had already wowed diners in Los Angeles, his first New York stage.
Stages in Miami and Milan, London and Las Vegas, would follow. Americans' ideas about what an upscale, mainstream Japanese restaurant should serve (sashimi salad, a pink puck of toro tartare with a black beret of caviar) and how it should look (somewhat whimsical, more spare or sleek than plush) would be affected by Nobu's concoctions and complexion.
The familiarity of Nobu 57 reflects more than its sire's genes and zest for reproduction. It reflects - and is compounded by - its sire's broader legacy. Nobu is to Matsuri and Koi as McDonald's is to Wendy's: a tutor and template.
But Nobu 57 gets exactly right what many of Nobu's less direct descendants don't: the dependable fineness and freshness of product; the calibration of sweetness, tartness, richness and modulated fire in many dishes; the efficient service.
In fact the child may at present be bettering the parent, its managers more attentive, its kitchen hands more engaged.
On a recent night several friends and I ate almost precisely the same meals at Nobu and Nobu 57, going directly from one to the other.
Much about the original Nobu had a frayed, complacent quality. There were epic waits for dishes and sloppy applications of dressings. And when I had called to make the 6 p.m. reservation, I was curtly told that we would have to leave our table by 8:30. We had yet to arrive and were already being shown the door.
Nobu 57 could also benefit from better phone etiquette. I was frequently put on hold while someone searched for the reservation book, the right computer file, Jimmy Hoffa - who knew?
But Nobu 57 was more disciplined. On that double-header night and others, most of the food was terrific. The rock shrimp in that famous, creamy tempura dish had been cooked beautifully, each bite yielding a tiny explosion of flavor and moisture.
The sushi was exemplary, including interesting selections, one of which our server identified as "gen saba" and called "the toro of mackerel." It tasted luscious enough, and felt buttery enough on the tongue, to live up to that billing.
The soft-shell crab in a cut roll was still crisp, still warm. (Other restaurants prepare the cooked elements of rolls too far in advance, so that all the ingredients are tepid or cold.) The lobster in lobster ceviche was gorgeous and sweet. It had been combined with red onions and cilantro, then wrapped in butter lettuce.
When it came to raw or almost raw fish compositions, the Nobu way of adding lively accents without getting carried away distinguished a seafood triptych of octopus, uni and scallop, each seasoned with cilantro and a single bold red pinprick of Peruvian chili paste.
Many diners think only of Japanese when they think of Nobu. But that paste, that ceviche and the recurrence of cilantro and jalapeno (as in another Nobu classic, yellowtail sashimi with jalapeno) were reminders that Mr. Matsuhisa is a fusion artist. He brokered a partnership between Japan and Latin America.
Nobu 57 adds only minor developments to that arrangement. It has a wood-burning oven, used for recurring nightly specials, including a pleasant Arctic char. A new king crab tempura dish came with an amazu sweet vinegar sauce.
On the omakase (chef's tasting) menu was an infrequently seen cut of bluefin tuna, the collar, which was very fatty, slightly gamy and altogether wonderful: the lamb shank of the sea. It had been grilled and placed beside a ramekin of the same wasabi pepper sauce that accompanies a dish of halibut cheeks.
Nobu 57 has several new desserts, including a lovely one that mingles a puree of white peaches with cold jasmine tea, peanut crumble and beer ice cream.
But the restaurant's biggest departure from Nobu is its glimmer and size. David Rockwell again supervised the design, but this time around he traded blond for black and went heavy on a rattan-like material, making Nobu 57 look a bit like an upscale Pier 1 in which the lights have been doused.
It spreads over two floors and enough space to allow it something Nobu doesn't have - a proper bar area - as well as more tables. It increases, at least slightly, the chance of a coveted Nobu reservation.
The downtown restaurant is still consistently jammed, still a celebrity haven. Nobu 57 also has celebrities, including Naomi Campbell and a bevy of emaciated giantesses on a surreal night during Fashion Week.
But it can accommodate regular folk a bit more easily, and regular folk were my usual companions. What mattered most to them, and to me, wasn't whether Nobu 57 was exploring new culinary horizons.
What mattered was how well it navigated terrain that's become common precisely because it's so appealing, and Nobu 57, under its executive chef, Matt Hoyle, navigated it expertly enough to compensate for any lack of originality.
What mattered was that black cod. I'm almost convinced that Mr. Matsuhisa maintains a secret tank in which the fish toss back Jacques Torres chocolates and watch "Finding Nemo" while they fatten.
The result, richer in the Nobu family than anywhere else, was no less de-lovely for the number of times it's been performed.
40 West 57th Street, Midtown; (212) 757-3000.
ATMOSPHERE Two spacious floors of dark, glittering
